


hello again (friend of a friend)

by dragonair, hajitoru, kanonicity, rronanllynch, rubyruins



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Flirting, Getting Together, Ghosts, M/M, Minor Kyouhaba - Freeform, Reunions, ghost!Hanamaki, necromancer!Matsukawa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26039221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonair/pseuds/dragonair, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hajitoru/pseuds/hajitoru, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanonicity/pseuds/kanonicity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rronanllynch/pseuds/rronanllynch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyruins/pseuds/rubyruins
Summary: “What if,” Tooru inhales, “Iwaizumi’s not there? What if there’s nothing there? What if he’s just gone, Mattsun?”Matsukawa fiddles with the crystal between his fingers.“Like what if we’re wrong? What if there’s no other side? What if there is but he’s not there? I can’t handle the idea that he’s just...gone.”Or, Iwaizumi has been missing for years. Oikawa suspects he's dead. Matsukawa helps out with his 'necromantic wiles' - and meets Hanamaki in the process.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 3
Kudos: 78





	hello again (friend of a friend)

From being between jobs to no jobs and moving to different cities in an effort to do some “soul searching” as one does, Takahiro wonders how he got lucky enough to live on his own in a comfortable home on the edge of town. It was small and not particularly special—there was a dip in the floor in the living room and the sink in the upstairs washroom would always drip, no matter how many times he tried to get someone else to fix it—but it was his own, at least for a while. 

Takahiro's first unofficial housemate had surprised him, or rather his new housemates had. He had thought being woken up by whatever commotion the upstairs neighbours in his last apartment was disconcerting. Though he realized that waking to the sounds of both thundering rain and a truck honking continuously in his driveway followed by a baby’s screams was certainly a worse way to start any day. The family had welcomed themselves into his home and didn’t listen to a word he said when he tried to stop them. They breezed right past him, bringing boxes upon boxes inside without batting an eye in his direction. 

About three days after that horrible wakeup call, Takahiro decides that if they won’t listen to him, he might as well try to do something to get their attention. This place was his home after all. _What’s wrong with a little mischief anyways?_ It starts out with moving items around the house. The parents had moved all his furniture outside to be taken by the garbage truck, so he retaliates by taking innocuous things and moving them when they leave for their regular weekend getaway. 

Upon their return home, there are a handful of pens from their makeshift office in his old room, a small stereo, the napkin holder they keep on top of their fridge, a few hair clips and even the man’s left slipper left out on the front lawn. Takahiro admires his handiwork as the parents scream and fuss about an intruder. Although, the baby babbles and giggles, waving their rattle in his direction. _Ah, finally someone who appreciates my handiwork._

The “redecoration trick” however passes and the parents still pay no attention to him. Takahiro feels like a teenager trying to be rebellious and being ignored terribly. Still, he goes about his day-to-day business, job hunting and exploring the neighbourhood then returning home to hopefully be left alone unbothered by the others residing in the house. He “redecorates” four more times and after almost getting caught dragging their horrible leather sofa halfway into the kitchen, the family is packing up their belongings as quickly as they had arrived.

Once he was finally free again, Takahiro sleeps in for the first time in a while over the next two weeks. It’s quiet without the family there and he finds himself missing the extra noise they made that filled the house, similar to the old roommates he had when he shared an apartment in what feels like years ago. Frowning, he gets up for the day and turns on the stereo the family left behind in their rush. He turned the dial a touch too high then wanders downstairs into the kitchen. He isn’t particularly worried about noise complaints from his neighbours — their houses are a five minute walk away, distant and unbothered by anything he does.

Takahiro contemplates what to have for breakfast and just as he opens the fridge door, the lightbulb inside sparks and bursts. He glares the glass shards in an otherwise empty fridge, as if they’ll go ahead and clean themselves up. He supposes now is as good a time as any to go grocery shopping. 

“Today could be worse,” he murmurs.

And just like that over the sound of pop music blaring from upstairs, he hears a familiar tick, then the jingling and a click. The music stops. He abandons the fridge and moves towards the front door in time to see an older woman with greying roots alongside four kids of different ages standing in the open entryway. There are bags and boxes by their feet. 

The teens all shuffle in with wide smiles before shouting and racing up the stairs in their efforts to “pick out the best room.” Takahiro stares at the woman, who remains oddly still in the doorway seemingly staring right through him. He raises a hand and waves awkwardly.

There’s a coolness that fills the air and Takahiro knows all too well what follows it. His chest tightens. Then the woman turns away from him and turns to look behind her. Rain pours down so suddenly, she shrieks. She yells for the kids to come back downstairs and help move their things inside immediately.

The pitter-patter grows louder than her screams. He can feel his head buzzing and limbs growing heaving. Frowning, he finds himself stumbling past her, out into the rain and leaving them in his home to unpack. He drops onto the lawn face first where he stays for who knows how long. He can feel the faintest press of hands on his shoulders. They are so warm.

If he listens close enough, the rain sounds as though it's twinkling. Takahiro wonders if the universe will ever stop laughing at him.

* * *

After entertaining and living with nearly a dozen new occupants in the last year, Takahiro comes to terms with the fact that the house is no longer his. He’s more than fine with sharing it when the tenants are respectful enough. In fact, it takes about ten seconds for Takahiro to decide he wouldn’t mess (as much) with the new owner of the house. 

“I know you’re here,” a guy his age calls out as he steps inside. He isn’t carrying anything save for his keys and a water bottle. He doesn’t kick his shoes off immediately, nor does he have any boxes or bags to show. “You’re not gonna kick me out of my childhood home.”

Takahiro walks towards the entryway. He runs a hand along the wall, tilting each of the photo frames the realtor had put up as he passes. The stranger is staring right at him then. His brows furrow and Takahiro thinks he can make out the other’s jaw clenching.

“If you’re gonna be a dick, can I at least get your name?”

“Hanamaki Takahiro,” Takahiro wheezes with a grin. He laughs, harder than he ever has in ages, and smacks his hand against the wall as he doubles over. The wall shakes and the closest frame drops to the floor and shatters at his feet. _Oops._

“Well shit.” The stranger huffs a laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “My name’s Iwaizumi Hajime. I thought I would give you the heads up that I move in tomorrow.”

Takahiro is certain Hajime cannot see him. When he looks up, green eyes don’t meet his own. Instead they stay fixed on the now broken frame. The crease between his brows returns, though he does not appear particularly upset. Takahiro considers he could try showing himself, except he knows what will happen tomorrow, what will follow Hajime to the house, and the memory alone exhausts him. _A warning,_ Takahiro thinks to himself, _that’s all I can offer for now_. 

Just as Hajime moves to turn and leave, Takahiro lazily knocks on the wall. The first knock is loud and the following two barely make a sound even to his own ears. He walks closer towards Hajime, tapping his fingers along all the while. As he gets closer, Hajime stands up a little taller and a bit sturdier. Takahiro grins and observes Hajime for a moment. 

“You’re not like them, not like the last owners,” Takahiro says, “You can’t even hear me tell you this, but hopefully you can get what I’m trying to warn you about.”

It takes a lot of effort, more than Takahiro is willing to admit, yet he takes his time and opens the sliding closet door. The closet is nearly bare save for one item hanging on the rod. Takahiro steps aside so that Hajime can reach in and grab it. Hajime has the audacity to tilt his head, looking more confused at the closet door opening than what waits inside. 

“I’m not a vampire. I won’t melt under the sun, or at least, I don’t think they would,” Hajime’s voice wavers as he reaches into the closet. “Unless this is for tomorrow?”

Takahiro knocks on the wall once and hums. 

Hajime nods to himself for a moment and when he turns to leave, he glances over his shoulder and pauses, flashes a smile and walks out. Takahiro stands still for a while and is near certain of two things. The first is that tomorrow would be exciting and exhausting. The other, he could have sworn Hajime saw him.

* * *

Takahiro sits on the kitchen countertop and merely watches for the majority of Hajime’s move-in process. It is a fairly fast process compared to the others from before. Though Takahiro would wager it is because Iwaizumi is bringing less into the house. There is no truck packed full with furniture that comes with Hajime that morning and each box brought in is deliberately and neatly packed. Takahiro can’t help but snicker when a box only labelled “Godzilla” is left at the foot of the staircase. He aims to move closer and peak inside it, but Hajime scowls at the air and mumbles something about being a big fan of the creature growing up. They talk at each other, voices ringing loud and reverberating throughout the rest of the house. Most of their words fail to reach the other and fragmented pieces of their conversations fail to make sense to anyone else who may be listening in. Still, they make do and Hajime and his belongings are settled within the house by noon.

 _Staying here a month with me is generous._ Takahiro would tell Hajime at some point in their first week of living together. _I can’t really help you with much regarding the house, or much of anything really… But hey, if you have a party, I could show off some cool tricks._

Though after the first week of living together, Takahiro learns that Hajime isn’t exactly the party type. Somehow this simultaneously relieves and disappoints him, but again, it ultimately does not bother Takahiro. Instead, he learns that Hajime is reliable albeit a bit too blunt and an all around considerate roomie. He learns that Hajime managed to pay for the mortgage on his own, repair the leaking sink in the bathroom himself and even went as far as to replace the mirror Hiro had broken the night before on accident. The repair was preceded by yelling vague threats and grumbling about wondering what else Takahiro had broken before his arrival. 

Vague threats notwithstanding, Takahiro does not stop showing off his redecoration skills. At this point, he’s certain it has become a ritual or right of passage of sorts or something, between him, the house and whoever has the pleasure of sharing the house with him. For the most part, Hajime humours him, because Takahiro continues to only move only miscellaneous items and Hajime is surprisingly good at finding what he’s “lost” just as quickly. 

Weeks pass and conversations when Hajime asks “yes or no” questions are simply the easiest. Takahiro knocks on a nearby surface once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no.’ The first time Takahiro manages to write out a message on a steamy mirror, Hajime wonders out loud if Takahiro had been there the entire time. Two sharp knocks sound from the other side of the washroom door before Hajime is left alone staring at a fading smiley face and _Hanamaki Takahiro_. 

Hajime makes no effort to pry answers from Takahiro about why he bothers staying in the house if he often doesn’t like the new people who move in to live there. In return, Takahiro accepts knowledge about Hajime’s return to his childhood home only when it’s offered and doesn’t ask why he comes home at odd hours sometimes. Alternatively, Takahiro quips about Hajime’s odd taste in decor and how lacking his choice in snacks is. Hajime will sometimes ask about what Takahiro did to make previous tenants leave only to regret it when he arrives home to see all his cookware neatly rearranged on his lawn as though he was hosting a sale. Moving things have been easier. Many of their conversations are still disjointed, words echoing back hours later or left in the air without a reply. They keep their secrets and learn about each other in other ways. 

Around the six month mark, Hajime returns home in the middle of the night. Takahiro wakes to the sound of the floorboards creaking underneath Hajime’s feet, despite the latter’s efforts to move around the house quietly. Takahiro lays and listens only to be confused by the lack of sounds that follow. There are no footfalls growing louder as expected, nor any sounds of the doorknob down the hall rattling. Takahiro crawls out of bed and takes his time making his way downstairs. He finds Hajime hunched forward leaning heavily onto the dining table. He does not say anything when Takahiro flicks the light on and off just to mess with him. Rather he turns to glance over his shoulder and Takahiro is mildly surprised by how embarrassed the other appears. 

Hajime turns away again. “I thought we could try something.”

“Oh,” is all Takahiro manages as he stares down at what Hajime has in front of himself. He makes a show of dragging out his chair before plopping himself down in it. “I didn’t think you would be the type for this kind of thing.”

He remembers the previous tenants, more specifically the girl his age who was visiting her parents and brought a board like this into the house once to humour her younger siblings. He shivers at the memory of the chill that swept over the house that day. He left with a bad feeling and stayed away for a few days wandering the town before returning to a near empty home and the smell of burnt wood mixed with rainfall. The girl, her board and the strange chill are gone, but so are the rest of her family and their possessions. 

The board on the table now is nothing extraordinary and if Takahiro is being honest, he’s glad about that fact. That is to say, the board’s inked letters are faded and hesitantly, he reaches out to rest his hand over the planchette. It is cool to the touch and trying to move it is harder than it appears. It may be harmless enough for now, but Takahiro has no wishes to invite someone or something unwanted into their space. 

Hajime’s oddly quiet. There is no offence in his tone, only the slight hint of curiosity sounds as he asks, “Why not?”

“There are weirder powers and stranger people than me out there you know.” Takahiro can actually hear himself speak as he raises his hand to let the planchette rest over the faded _no_. “I know you mean well, but we’re both better off if we keep talking the way we do without this stupid thing.”

The two sit in what should be an awkward silence for just a moment. And like every conversation before, Hajime stops himself from prying further and Takahiro instead requests for a change in topic through a series of tapping sounds and knocking. Hajime huffs and moves the board and planchette aside and stands to make himself coffee. He recalls his day to be as normal as usual save for the pitstop to pick up the board from a friend of his. Hajime offers to stop by Takahiro’s old favourite haunt in town, a cafe, and bring him back a dozen cream puffs as an apology. Takahiro knocks his hand so fast against the table he manages to hit his elbow against the side of the table. He groans and holds the tingling joint as Hajime laughs.

The tingling does not go away. It shifts and grows into something else. The pinpricks of a limb going numb after resting on it for too long spreads across his entire body and Takahiro cannot find any strength to voice what is happening to Hajime. It is painfully numbing, resembling the sensation of what television static would probably feel like. Words fail and Takahiro belatedly realizes he can no longer hear Hajime’s voice. He can only hear a persistent ringing. His chest aches and he almost thinks he can feel his heart beating again.

Then there is absolutely nothing. A chill washes over him before relief does. The house is still and when Takahiro turns his attention onto Hajime, the guy in question is staring right back at him. Takahiro is about to ask Hajime what he sees when he is suddenly thrown back onto the floor. The chair falls with him and it doesn’t hurt. Unseen hands or strings, Takahiro is unable to determine which, continues to grab and tug at his arms and legs. He struggles and wants to tell Hajime not to worry.

Takahiro has been too lucky since the other boy had moved in. It was only a matter of time before that luck ran out. He thinks to the agonizing shrieks of the ghost that haunts the town’s sole movie theatre. He has been dead after all and wondered if someday that would happen to be his fate too. Being a ghost had its perks, like not paying rent and pulling small tricks on his housemates without any real consequences. He does not blame Hajime for this, whatever this is. There are always worse circumstances, Takahiro muses. And even though he cannot see or hear if Hajime has any clue of what is happening to him, Takahiro flashes a smile in his direction and allows himself get dragged back into the darkness and lets it swallow him whole.

* * *

Tooru wakes up, heart beating fast in his chest with Hajime’s name on his lips. Another dream. Another nightmare. Another one night stand that got spooked by his screaming and left before breakfast. Well, at least the nightmares were good for something.

Except this one night stand left something on Tooru’s counter as he’d fled.

A matte black business card, with his best friend’s name printed on it. Tooru rolls his eyes as he tosses it into the trash and dials Matsukawa’s number.

“You’re getting random guys to advertise for you now? I know you were desperate but even this seems like a bit much.” 

Matsukawa sighs heavily on the other end of the line. 

“It’s 6 am, asshole, what did you do now?” 

“A guy just left your business card on my counter. I’m just saying, as advertising goes, it could be more subtle.” 

“Maybe,” Tooru hears shuffling on the other end of the line, “he left the business card because you need my services. And I’m not talking about when you come here and eat my food. My real services, because I actually have a job.”

Tooru flops onto his couch.

“Being beautiful is a job for me, Mattsun. Just because you don’t understand the struggle pretty people fa-” 

Matsukawa cuts Tooru off. 

“Don’t distract me by being a dick. I’m just saying, maybe you should take your own advice for once and get out of your comfort zone.” 

Tooru hangs up on him.

* * *

Three weeks, 12 nightmares, and two more awkward mornings with one night stands pass. 

Tooru reluctantly flips his phone open and dials Matsukawa again. 

“It’s six am, again, Tooru. What do you need!” 

Tooru inhales deeply. 

“Okay. Let’s do it. I need you to summon someone. “

Silence permeates the line and Matsukawa’s voice is significantly quieter when he responds.

“Okay. Come over at 10.” 

Tooru hangs up and goes to do a face mask. He’s gonna need all the self care in the world to get through today.

* * *

Tooru breezes into Matsukawa’s house like he owns the place, but Mattsun doesn’t stop him. Obviously.

“Mattsun! Are you ready?! It’s time for you to wow me with your,” Oikawa waves his fingers, “necromantic wiles!” 

Matsukawa looks up from where he’s drawing a pentagram on the floor in white chalk. 

“Necromantic wiles?” 

“Ghostly genius?” 

“At least it’s alliterative.” 

Matsukawa continues drawing in silence as Tooru putters around, almost poking things before he feels Matsukawa’s eyes on his back daring him to mess something in the room up. He sighs and flops into a hideous velvet chair at the edge of the room. 

“Are you ready yet?” he drags out the ‘yet’ in an annoying whine. 

Matsukawa is unphased.

“You know that I can’t finish until you tell me who we’re contacting.”

Tooru opens his mouth to bullshit Matsukawa a little more, delaying this a little longer, but Matsukawa pins him with a look and he knows he can’t.

But that's never stopped him from trying! 

“Mattsun, mattsun, mattsun,” he shakes his head in mock disappointment, “I told you already! I can’t believe you’re so unprofessional to have already forgotten.” 

He tsks quietly and reaches out to run his finger through one of the lines drawn on the wood floor. 

Matsukawa grabs his hand and gently places a piece of chalk into it. 

“It won’t work as good if you write it, but if that’ll be easier…” Matsukawa bites his lip, then pushes the chalk further into Tooru’s grip, “I don’t want to hurt you, Oikawa, but this is part of the process.” 

Tooru sighs, and focuses on the feel of the chalk in his hand, the dust slowly sinking into the grooves of his fingers. 

He leans forward, and feels Matsukawa reading over his shoulder as he writes the characters: 

Iwaizumi Hajime. 

Matsukawa doesn’t say anything, just takes the chalk gently from Tooru’s shaking fingertips before he drops it and messes up the circle. His touch is soft when he guides Tooru to sit cross legged at the northernmost peak of the pentagram. 

The room is quiet and Tooru walks himself through the grounding exercises that he learned in therapy, and breathes quietly. 

Five things he can hear. The candles flickering. A ceiling fan circling. Crickets outside the cracked window. One of Matsukawa’s cats purring in the next room over. 

And his own heart beat, reverberating in his chest. 

Four things he can see. Tooru cracks an eye open. Matsukawa closed the curtains, black t shirt on a black curtain. Crystals lining the shelf across from him. A light green candle. 

He’s on 3 things he can smell when Matsukawa places a hand on his shoulder.

“You ready?” 

Tooru steadies himself, and looks at Matsukawa with big, vulnerable eyes. He needs to ask. Before they start. 

“What if,” he inhales, “he’s not there? What if there’s nothing there? What if he’s just gone, Mattsun?” 

Matsukawa fiddles with the crystal between his fingers. 

“Like what if we’re wrong? What if there’s no other side? What if there is but he’s not there? I can’t handle the idea that he’s just...gone.” 

Tooru breathes in shakily. Before Matsukawa can begin to comfort him, he shakes off the other man’s concerned expression and reaches forward determinedly. 

“There’s only way to find out, I guess.” 

Matsukawa ignores his momentary lapse in confidence, and lets him start the ritual.

* * *

An hour later, the candles have been snuffed, the chalk has been washed away, and Tooru still hasn’t moved. 

It didn’t work. The ritual didn’t work. They did the summoning. They did it right. Matsukawa tried twice, three times to summon Hajime from the ether, or at least reach him. 

Their hands reached out through time and space and existence, and Hajime wasn’t there reaching back.

Hajime wasn’t there. 

Tooru’s greatest fear, realized. He closes his eyes tightly and presses on them with his palms trying to see stars instead of the overlay of images that run through his mind whenever he thinks about Hajime.

Hajime’s smile, bright under the summer sun as he taught Tooru how to climb trees and Tooru taught him how to catch bugs. Hajime’s calloused palm as he held Tooru’s hand, gently dragging him around his room and explaining his trinkets. 

But all the good memories that play there get drowned out eventually, replaced in his mental eye by the one memory that matters. That Tooru lays awake regretting every night. 

It's Hajime’s eyes, welling with tears as Tooru watches from his bedroom as his mom tells Hajime that Tooru won’t be coming down to say goodbye before Hajime moves away from Tooru forever. Tooru wishes he could shake his past self, tell him to put aside his pride and his hurt to say goodbye to his friend one last time. But he can’t. So his mind’s eye replays the moment when Hajime turned away to get into his car, glancing back one last time. 

And it would be the last time. Hajime moved away. They fell out of contact. And then Tooru’s parents sat him down and explained that Hajime’s family had died in a car accident. All of them. And then it doesn’t matter what Tooru would have said or could have said because he would never get the chance to say it. 

And sure, Tooru grew up, moved out, but he always remembered Hajime, and the regret that lives in his chest when he thinks about his first friend. His first love. And his last, with the way he haunts Tooru’s dreams and taunts him with regrets. 

This had been Tooru’s last chance to reconnect, to soothe the aching hole in his chest. To summon Hajime back would have been a dream, but all he’d wanted to do is say goodbye. And he hadn’t even gotten that. 

Tooru pushes himself up reluctantly, putting the pile of papers that recorded their attempts on Matsukawa's desk. Maybe he could use them to fix some other poor soul’s life. Maybe they could try again.

Weeks later, after two beers and at 11 oclock at night, that thought strikes him again.

Maybe they could try again.

* * *

Yahaba Shigeru lives in a normal apartment building, on a normal street, in a normal town in Tokyo. He shares said apartment with his boyfriend, Kyoutani Kentarou, and like normal roommate-turned-boyfriends, they live under constant fear of missing payments, or unintentionally pissing off their landlord, or something else equally frightening and disastrous for their well-being.

They do lots of other ordinary roommate things, too, like vacuuming the apartment exactly twice a month (only after Shigeru’s allergies start to feel bad enough for him to question whether or not his immune system will actually allow him to catch a cold), going to the grocery store (which always involves a shrieking Shigeru asking Kyoutani to check _one last time_ if he mistakenly put a clove of garlic in their cart), and staying up until four in the morning on random weekdays for no reason at all.

Despite the normalcy of their everyday lives, Shigeru and Kyoutani are not… normal people. In fact, they’re not really people at all. 

Amidst the normal everyday worries they’ve grown accustomed to, Shigeru and Kyoutani both tend to reflect on their pasts. Most particularly, in Shigeru’s case, the fact that he died about five years ago. 

And as for before that? Shigeru can’t even remember what being human was like, nor the specifics of how he became a vampire. It’s not like he was given a _manual_ the day he was bitten, so... he’s kind of winging it? He does his best to avoid direct sunlight, he assumes he has an _extreme garlic allergy,_ he manifests as much willpower as he can so as to not turn into a bat at the slightest provocation.

Shigeru would prefer never dying again, if he can help it. (And if that’s even possible? He’s honestly not sure, but he’s going with no.) He can’t remember the physical pain that brought about his death much, but the aftermath was a logistical _nightmare_. Obtaining “official” human records was a hellish process, even with connections - he can’t imagine what it would’ve been like, without them. 

In order to avoid getting spotted, he even needed to stay as a bat for six months straight, once. (It was painful! And stinky! And… furry? Maybe that’s where he gets his tolerance for Kyoutani from… Regardless, Shigeru never wants to think about it in more depth than that ever again!) 

Even then, once Shigeru could successfully assimilate into human society, things weren’t easy. There was always the issue of being spotted by someone who already knew him. The past him. He’s fairly sure that he could pull off an heir of aloofness in public, but if someone gets persistent? He’s a goner for sure. He’s always bothered by these things - what if he meets his mother? Or someone else equally close to him in his past life? How the hell is he supposed to react to that? 

Needless to say, Shigeru’s making a new name for himself - both literally and metaphorically - has been a pain in the ass from start to finish. All he can do is put trust in his abilities, and those who know his truth.

What else can he do! All he’s operating on is a vague recollection of his name, a pair of incisors sharp enough to kill a man (not that Shigeru has tried - all of the blood he consumes is found by somewhat moral means, thank you very much), and the general knowledge that he should probably keep his obvious vampire traits away from regular people as often as possible.

In truth, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if random people found out. There are plenty of oddities in the world for people to notice: werewolves (Kyoutani, the sole reason why Matsukawa calls Shigeru a _vampire centrist_ ), and necromancers (Matsukawa Issei, their only human friend who knows the truth about them), and ghosts (this Iwaizumi character their friend Matsukawa couldn’t figure out, apparently) and the like.

Shigeru knows this, that he’s one of many supernatural things this world has to offer, but he would rather stay unnoticed as long as possible.

Additionally, re: the whole _staying up until four in the morning_ thing… Shigeru and Kyoutani are both actually supposed to be nocturnal, or something. (Kyoutani he’s not so sure about, but… he has to be nocturnal, at least when the full moon comes out, right?) Again - Shigeru had no briefing on such matters, but he assumes this to be the case. 

But, still - they’re going for the _appearance_ of a normal couple, which means sacrificing their comfort for fitting into the human world. Nocturnal humans aren’t exactly a thing, so they’ve given up that much. And, considering their track record since turning, Kyoutani and Shigeru both are pretty good at putting up a convincing facade. 

Which means they’re familiar with the concept of normalcy. Attempting to blend in with humans much unlike them on the inside, and altering their mannerisms to match, have become deeply ingrained habits for Shigeru and Kyoutani both.

Thus, they notice when their mutual friend Matsukawa seems out of sorts. Likely before Matsukawa himself even notices.

It’s partially in his facial expressions - while droopy eyebrows and sunken eyes are usually a recurring aspect of Matsukawa’s trademark look, making it difficult to tell when he’s _truly_ down in the dumps, it’s usually accompanied by a certain type of smile, as well. 

And when it’s gone, well… it’s pretty obvious for people like Shigeru and Kyoutani to tell something’s up. Being so in tune with their surroundings actually does them some good, in this case. 

What’s bothering Matsukawa right now - it’s not necessarily dire. With all of the procedures he’s going through recently, there’s a chance it’s just some excess energy left over. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if that were the case, but there’s a chance it’s… slightly more serious.

Thus, Shigeru worries. Matsukawa may be a necromancer, but he’s still _human._

And Shigeru wants to be there for him, in case all goes wrong.

* * *

Issei is no stranger to the eerie presence of the unknown. The disturbing on-off flicker of his study lamp makes his skull paper weight look more menacing than a vampire with bared teeth. _Memento mori_. Remember you must die. The idea lulls him to sleep on most restless nights. If Issei were a poet, he would write an ode to the owl howling to the moon outside his window. Perhaps, he could even invent a genre of poetry that mocks the Romantics. 

On days when he feels lonely, Issei's most frequented hobby is to waltz with the floating curtains despite there being no wind and all windows shut tight. Yahaba says watching him play a game of chess with nothing but blank space as the pieces move on their own is more unsettling than witnessing a pack of wolves ravish their prey. 

Issei is aware that his quirks scare people. They call it weird, unnatural, _spooky_. They run. Issei, however, is no _people_. He is used to the presence of the dead; he finds comfort in the familiarity of unnatural.

What leaves him shaken, waking up in cold sweat with flailing arms and a gasp lodged mid-throat, however, is the grinding sound of his blending machine, accentuated by some trashy american pop music playing in the background which is, least to say, a very normal way to have been awoken as they show in the movies, and Issei does not like it. He jumps up from his bed, the untangled bed sheets restraining him until he loses balance and plunges over the carpeted floor. He swims in agony, a low grunt rattling his chest. What a wonderful morning.

Issei massages his injured elbow when a louder sound echoes through his apartment. A blast from the kitchen and Issei is immediately on his feet, rushing out with his heart in his throat. This has never happened before. Issei has lived a relatively peaceful life with his ghosts and an unconventional job. He is used to the quiet. He is used to the eerie. He is not used to _this_. And this entails a blown up blending machine with mango juice colouring the cabinets, the floor, the island yellow; and in the eye of the storm stands an unfamiliar face. The first noticeable thing is the pink hair, matted and now wet with the wasted mango juice. Worse is the fact he does not look apologetic; a rather triumphant smile curls the corner of his lips when he sees Issei standing at the doorway. The television is still on, a pop song with an annoying beat playing loud and clear, and Issei wants to scream. 

“Oop, did I wake you?” The stranger asks. Issei stares. “Your kitchen is cool by the way. That brute rarely ever has anything in the fridge for me to start food wars.”

Issei catches the last bit of his murmur but ignores it in favour of asking the more important questions. “Who the fuck are you?”

The stranger props himself up on the juice smeared island of the kitchen, legs dangling, a rather thoughtful expression on his face. “You don’t know?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“Considering how I am here because of your summoning, I suppose you should.”

Issei’s mouth hangs open. Whatever little sleep that clung to his lashes is now gone. “My summoning?”

“Yes!” His smile is too bright for someone actually dead. “I am Hanamaki Takahiro by the way, since you asked so nicely.”

Issei curses under his breath, a grim realisation slowly dawning on him. He bolts for his working room, nearly knocks down the door on his way in, and shuffles to the table where papers and summoning crystals lay in a messy pile. He gathers them up and goes through the writings, the information Oikawa provided him with. Issei tries to recall if there was a misstep somewhere, if he did something wrong without meaning to. But he knows he has been careful with it; he always is. Issei hates to toot his own horn but there is no other necromancer he knows who takes as much care as he does. He heeds every intricacy of a ritual, notes the fragility of the spirit he is trying to summon, takes his time with the formulary. Issei has always done it _right_. 

He does not understand. He does not understand what went wrong. He does not understand why there is a pink-haired ghost in his apartment making himself at home. _Not a ghost_ , Issei reminds himself. He is technically alive now that he is here in all flesh and bone. 

Takahiro walks in after him with quiet footfalls. He stands in the middle of the room and looks around, an unmasked awe blowing his eyes wide. “This is so cool.”

Issei slumps down on his chair, the darkness of the room soaking up whatever little energy that is left in his sleep-deprived body. “Do not touch a thing,” he says. 

Takahiro winks and prowls to the nearest shelf, examining the ancient, withering spines of the books, the skulls with a yawn of black in its empty sockets, the crystals flashing sharp glints in the dimly lit room. His child-like curiosity would’ve made Issei laugh on a normal day -- today is anything but normal. Issei knows how to deal with spirits, he knows how to summon them back to his clients who hire him for the purpose. He does not know what to actually do with one when they turn up at his doorstep. Or worse, turns his kitchen upside down as if a storm has blown over. 

“You did not give me your name,” Takahiro whispers to his ear. Issei was too lost in his thoughts to register his cat-like movements, or when he sidled up too close to him . 

“Because pleasantries are unnecessary, you’re not staying here.”

“You make a wonderful host." He laughs. "Besides, it’s not my fault I am here. I never asked to be summoned. I was happy staying with my dear friend.”

“Tormenting you mean.” 

Takahiro gasps, hands fist to his chest. “You wound me.”

Issei sighs and gets up on his feet. “Anyway, we will figure out what to do with you after I am done eating.” And when he remembers the condition of his kitchen, he wants to slump back on his chair again. 

“Stop sounding like I am a trash bag that needs to be dumped out in the alley.”

“I will stop once you’ve cleaned all that mess in the kitchen.”

“Nevermind, trash bag sounds like a cute nickname for starters.”

*

Issei decides, albeit begrudgingly with a dry throat and pained jaws from all the clenching, that Takahiro is a good company. If not good then, well, _occupying_. Issei doesn’t deny that he likes being alone, but that is because he is used to it. Change is hard to adapt to and Issei likes familiarity more than surprises. Takahiro becomes a constant presence around him in a matter of days. He curdled into existence out of nothing and occupied a small space in Issei’s life. He got used to his company. The difference between the eerie dead and the bright-pink living was at first jarring. But Issei never figured out what to do with Takahiro; he did not try again. He admits the change isn't all that bad.

Takahiro has made his own little space in the apartment on the couch. Every morning when Issei wakes up and sees a familiar figure curled under the blankets, he realises he will have to prepare two bowls of breakfast and for some reason the thought does not unsettle him. After all, it’s more entertaining to play chess with someone he can see than empty air. 

“Checkmate.” Issei grins.

“How the fuck did you just-” Takahiro gasps. “You are such an ass, you clearly cheated.”

“Just admit you’re bad at this, Hiro.” Issei reaches over the table and pats his shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Takahiro digs the heels of his palm into his eyes and collapses on the wooden table, chess pieces toppling over from the impact. “I hate it here.”

“You know what this means?” Issei asks.

“Don’t say it.”

“You do the dishes and I get to choose the movie tonight.”

“If you pick horror again, I will genuinely kill you,” Takahiro says. He tries his best to make his threat sound scary but his voice comes out as a squeak and Issei doubles over. 

“You know me too well.”

“Issei…”

“Didn’t you tell me you were haunting this dude before being summoned here?” Issei holds the sides of his stomach, laughter bubbling up his throat. Takahiro looks way too distressed and he loves it. 

“Stop twisting my words, asshole, I was a good friend!”

“Ghost friend you mean?”

“Yes, and? I _behaved_.”

“I doubt. But I wonder what changed when you came here.”

“Issei, I will wring your throat in your sleep.”

“Ooh, scary.”

Issei takes pity on him and prepares his favourite kind of pasta for dinner that night. He made an agreement with Takahiro that if they are to stay together for now, both of them must have an equal share in doing the chores. Takahiro, of course, was against the prospect but finally came around. Issei likes to believe he is a rather pleasant person but sometimes, resorting to harmless threats becomes a necessity. Needless to say, he has been using it more often with Takahiro, especially on days when he wants to mimic a cat and refuses to move a muscle. 

_Kittens are cute_ , Issei thinks. An uneasy feeling crawls into his mind with the obvious realisation. He shakes it off and reclines into the sofa. 

“So what are we watching?” Takahiro settles beside Issei, gathering the blanket around him and snatching up the popcorn from the table.

"The Ring...and that bowl is for sharing,” says Issei as he watches Takahiro grab a handful and shove it into his mouth. 

“Hmph.”

Issei dims the ceiling lights and clicks play. The screen changes from grey to black as letters crawl together to spell out the name. Takahiro stiffens beside him. 

“If you want we could switch to something else,” Issei whispers.

“No, it’s fine.” Takahiro gobbles down a mouthful of popcorn. “It’s not that I’m scared. The ghosts are just unrealistically ugly and it annoys me.”

The movie opens with sinister music and Issei simply stares. “I mean come to think of it,” Takahiro continues, “what kind of ghost has such terrible fashion sense to go around wearing a flimsy white gown stained with blood and shit. That’s just tragic.”

Issei laughs. “No for real?” Takahiro is not finished. “Have you seen that hair? Look at mine. My taste is immaculate. Others cannot relate.”

“Touché.”

“Are you mocking me?”

Issei raises his hands in defence. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Something changes that night when Issei watches Takahiro fall asleep midway through the movie. It is essentially one of scarier scenes where Issei was looking forward to Takahiro’s critical commentary on the clothes, the ambience, the dialogues, the overall presentation because that’s all he did through the first half -- complain. But watching Takahiro snore softly, head nestled in the crook of Issei’s neck and pink hair tickling his chin when he shifts to look down at him, Issei realises he sleeps like the dead and he himself is six feet in deep -- trouble or his own grave, he cannot decide that yet. 

The next few days, Issei is more busy than usual before the weekend rolls in and he can find the time to rest. He is finishing up his current job with a client when his phone buzzes in his pocket. A message from Yahaba.

Vampire centrist: Coming to the club tonight?  
You: Um, nope.  
Vampire centrist: Wth why?  
You: Work was tiring.  
Vampire centrist: Work is always tiring, old man. Booze will be good for you. Come over and bring your friend.

Issei considers. He briefly mentioned Takahiro to his friends the other day. Though they do not know much, Issei realises it had them positively intrigued -- enough to try and lure him to the club along with his _friend_. It has been nearly a month since Takahiro’s grand entrance into his life and things have been different since then. He does not know if he wants to introduce him to the gang yet, but then he has no reason not to, really. So he decides. 

You: Ok cool. See you.  
Vampire centrist: Bring your friend.  
You: _Fine_.

Issei finds Takahiro perched on the window sill, one that frames a view of Tokyo skyscrapers and overlooks the city from the twelfth storey. Contrary to popular belief he does, in fact, not sleep near a graveyard and Kunimi was particularly disappointed when he had visited his place the first time and realised that Issei had failed to live up to his expectations of the typical necromantic aesthetic. Well, his work room made up for some of that displeasure. 

“So, what are you up to, _fantôme_ ,” Issei sings as he drags a chair and takes a seat near the window. 

“I thought necromancers speak Latin?” Takahiro quirks a brow, not taking his eyes off the brush as he paints his nails black. 

“Why not French _and_ Latin?” 

“You sure do a lot of talking for someone who fucked up the spell and summoned the wrong spirit.”

Issei scoffs. “That was one time.”

“Well.” Takahiro laughs, finishing off the second coat. He stretches his fingers and examines it from every angle. Satisfied, he cocks his head to look at Issei. “I am not complaining.”

There is something soft, something subtle in his voice that makes Issei’s heart lurch and flutter like a captured bird inside his ribcage. Feathers scatter and clog his throat; he forgets his next words. Takahiro looks something removed from reality as he sits there against a backdrop of blue skies, eclipsing the midday sun hovering over the buildings. And when he smiles, Issei finds himself removed from the reality he knows too. Instead he is thrown into a dream where Takahiro smiles at him and him alone and no one else. 

“Do you think this suits me?” Takahiro asks. Issei blinks, clueless for a few minutes. He realises he is asking about the nail colour. _Oh_.

He nods. “It does.”

“Do you want to wear it?”

“Huh?”

“I said, do you want to wear it too?” There is this hopeful slant in his brows that Issei cannot ignore. He nods again and watches Takahiro’s eyes light up. 

“Do you think it will suit me?” Issei asks.

“Let’s find out?”

Later that night, when they are preparing to leave for the club, Issei receives another text message from Yahaba. He confirms that he will bring Takahiro along. Takahiro, for one, was ecstatic when Issei had dropped the news of their invitation. _Do you have other necromancer friends? I have never met a vampire before, are they scary? Will there be alcohol?_ The stream of questions was endless. 

_Hiro_ , he had laughed, _of course there will be alcohol_.

A small smile plays on Issei's lips when they leave his apartment, an excited Takahiro walking beside him with a jump in every step. He sing-songs about the perfect night and the perfect weather and the right amount of chill in the air that allowed him to wear his leather jacket over the crop top he seems to be really fond of. Issei is too scared to pause and take a long look at him lest he trips and falls. But from the occasional sideway glances he managed to sneak, Issei knows Takahiro looks good. Really good. 

Blue Castle is not far from Issei’s place so they decide to walk down to the club. Nestled in one lonely corner of Tokyo, it is rather dark and gloomy compared to the neon shine of the city lights. With ivy-mantled walls and iron gate cloaked in vines that creak with the barest movement, Issei can guess Takahiro’s thoughts from the look on his face -- Blue Castle does not look very club-like. 

“Come on with me.” Issei pulls him along and approaches the tall wooden doors that usually remain closed to ward off humans. 

“Are you sure we are in the right place?”

Issei looks over his shoulder and silently tells him, _watch me_. He places his hand on the door and observes as streaks of blue light crawl out from his palm and mesh together like cobwebs. The glow smears the air around the keyhole with a shimmer before he hears a series of faint clicks and the door opens. Takahiro gasps. 

“Well, that was easy?”

“You sound impressed.” Issei smirks. “Welcome to Blue Castle.”

“Thanks, and don’t let it get to your head.” When they enter, the door clicks shut behind them again. “Is this owned by one of your friends?”

“Yes,” Issei says, looking around. “Ah, there he is.” 

They squeeze their way through the crowd towards the other side of the club where Yahaba is leaning against the bar, engaged in silent conversation with Kyoutani who glares at the drink in hand and silently nods away. Issei approaches him and slaps him on the back. “Fraternizing with the enemy, are we?”

Yahaba rolls his eyes. “Kyoutani and I have been dating for months now, the joke’s stale.”

“Clearly not if it still bothers you.”

“You just came here and I already want you gone.” Yahaba sighs. 

“Hey! You were the one who wanted me here.” 

Yahaba ignores Issei. His eyes drift over to Takahiro standing close behind him, watching their exchange with amusement etched onto his face. “Ah, you’re the friend Issei has been talking about.”

“He talks about me?” Takahiro asks. 

“Oh, we have to make him shut up to preserve the soundness of mind.” 

“Now you’re just hamming it up,” Issei cuts in. “It was one time.”

“Sure, it was one time. Anyway, getting drunk tonight, old man?”

“No, I have work early tomorrow so I don’t want to be hung over.”

“Weak.” He takes a sip of his drink and turns his attention back to Takahiro. “I’m Yahaba Shigeru, by the way. Just Yahaba is fine. And that's Kyoutani.”

“Ah. I’m Hanamaki Takahiro.”

“I know.” Yahaba laughs. “Remember when I said he couldn’t shut up about you?”

Takahiro looks half amused and half embarrassed. Issei has rarely ever seen the smile on his face that spells secrets but a giddy bunch of butterflies flitter in his stomach when he realises he is the reason behind it. 

Issei is glad Takahiro gets along well with his friends. Kyoutani remains quiet for the most part but Yahaba makes up for it. Sometime after midnight, when the crowd is louder than usual and his friends disappear to find their own dark corner somewhere in the club, Issei takes his time to really look at him. 

Takahiro’s face, with all its charm and smiling lips, looks like the sky where the interplay of northern lights captures the awe of anyone who looks at it. Colours blink from blue to magenta when Issei asks him, “Do you want to dance?”

Takahiro shrugs. “Sure.”

Issei does not hesitate and Takahiro does not pull away when he interlaces their fingers together and leads them to the dance floor. The crowd sways, pushes and pulls, pulses like a heartbeat as if mimicking the hammer in his own chest when he holds Takahiro close to him. Green lights spill around them like antifreeze, gearing up and foaming vitality which Issei absorbs. He moves with the music and so does Takahiro. Issei does not know what gives him enough courage to do it but his hands roam down to rest on Takahiro’s waist. And Takahiro, looking ethereal under the shifting lights, draws closer. Closer, until their foreheads are touching. He sighs into Issei’s lips, arms looping around his shoulders. His fingers draw patterns on his nape and Issei shivers. He closes his eyes and allows the feeling to dance down his spine. 

“This is nice,” Takahiro whispers. 

“Me or the song?”

“Of course the song, why would you think it's you?”

“Because I let you crash at my place for about,” Issei pauses and pretends to count in his head, “one month and twelve days now?”

“You literally called me trash the first day and threatened to throw me out.” Takahiro smiles and sweeps them away to a darker corner, far from prying eyes and maddening crowd.

“Well, you did blow up my kitchen first.”

It has always been like this, a familiar rhythm of innocuous jabs that is never ending and goes to and fro until someone gets bored. Issei has gotten used to it; he almost misses it when Takahiro goes silent. The music shifts to something slow, a sly but sensual undertone evident its cadence. Takahiro pulls closer until all the space between them ceases to exist. Their noses brush and Issei’s fingers dig into his waist. _What are you doing?_ He wants to ask. _What are we doing?_

When the lights are gold, Issei stares into Takahiro’s eyes, entranced by the swirl of colours in it, captured by the hunger that matches the curdling feeling in his own chest. They do not pull away, do not look away. The air around them grows hotter, messier. Issei feels the collar of his shirt sticky and irritable on the back of his neck. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Takahiro asks. 

Smoke swirls around their feet and Issei wonders if the same smoke has fogged his mind. He wonders if he is imagining the slight quiver of Takahiro’s lips when his fingers press a little harder on his skin. He wonders if the rope tying them together will be his own undoing. Despite that, _yes_ , he says. Despite everything, _yes_ , he agrees. 

They leave the club together. Through the haze Issei does not remember much. Just quick, resounding footsteps; a warm presence right beside him; an urgency in the air smothering him. “You want to see something cool?” Issei asks. 

Takahiro raises a brow expectantly. Issei leads him to the parking area where an array of motorbikes are parked against the brick wall. He chooses one, fits the key into the hole, and kick-starts the engine. “Hop on.”

Takahiro’s mouth hangs open. “I…what do you mean hop on, aren’t we practically stealing?”

“Well, not by a long stretch. This beauty belongs to Yahaba and friends share.”

“You really are an asshole, aren’t you?” Takahiro laughs and loops his leg over the seat, settling comfortably behind him. His arms wound around Issei’s waist, fingers clutching his shirt tight. “What are you waiting for,” Takahiro whispers next to his ears, breath fanning the flaming skin of his neck, “let’s get moving.”

Issei gulps. “A fair warning,” he says, “vampire’s bikes run on dark energy. So it’s faster than normal. Hold tight.”

“Just say you want me sitting closer and go.” 

Issei clicks his tongue and revs up the engine. They pull out of the parking area, into the dreary darkness of the night. Nothing but the engine’s roar and the rush of wind engulf them. From here, Issei sees the peak of skyscrapers expanding like a range of mountains. Against a backdrop of pink sky, they look like silhouettes of giants hovering over them at a distance. Dawn is only a few hours away. 

Takahiro huddles closer, resting his face on Issei’s shoulder. Warmth seeps from his body, through his clothes, into the skin of his back. Issei smiles and speeds up. Soon they’re pulling over on to the neon-washed driveway of their living complex and he does not know whether to be thankful or disappointed that the ride did not last longer. 

Issei has conditioned himself to be less shocked by surprises now, yet when Takahiro prods at his hands and shyly wraps his fingers around his thumb, Issei feels a jolt of warmth pushing apart the corners of his lips into a smile. He takes Takahiro’s hands into his, all sweat and warm and a cup large enough to hold his world in it. They take the elevator to the apartment together, patience thinning, longing swelling. 

Issei pulls his keys out of his pocket when in the darkness of the corridor, he sees a familiar figure leaning against his door. 

“Who the fuck is that?” Takahiro whispers. A whisper loud enough to awake a dozing Oikawa Tooru before he lost his balance and fell face down on the hard floor. 

Oikawa yawns and shakes his head. Issei watches his sleep-filled vision focus on them before he moves away from the door and stands at attention. “You’re finally here, I have been waiting for hours.”

“Well, Oikawa,” Issei says as he moves forward and unlocks the door, “I do not meet clients without a prior appointment. And certainly not at ass o’clock in the night-”

“Morning,” Takahiro corrects. It is past 3 a.m. now. 

“Morning.” The door clicks open and Issei is moving inside, beckoning Takahiro to follow him. “Come back some other time.”

He is about to close the door when Oikawa reaches out and stops it from slamming in his face. “Mattsun, you have to listen to me.”

“No, I absolutely do not have to.”

“Mattsun-”

“No.”

“You know that you fucked up and you know something went terribly wrong and you owe me another try.”

Issei knows. He knows better than anyone that this is one case where he did fail. Hanamaki Takahiro’s very existence is a testament to that. 

“Let him in, Issei,” Takahiro whispers from behind him. “Hear him out, you owe him.”

Issei sighs and opens the door ajar. “I don’t know what do you expect from me because my spells did not work and I’m not sure what will make it work.”

“I know. I know but-” The frustration around him seems palpable. Issei notices the bags under Oikawa’s eyes, the tired hunch of his shoulders. Issei feels terrible. He should’ve been able to help him, if only he could figure out what dried his spells of its purpose. 

“Mattsun, what if you tried again?” Oikawa’s rigid stance and the firmness in his voice dares him. “I’m sure you could try again. You’re the best one around here. If anyone could bring him back, it’s you.”

Issei fumbles for words. He lacks the god complex to label himself the best but he knows he is good at what he does. Silence hangs heavy in the room as he thinks. He racks his brain and turns the idea over in his head. Should he try again? What if it fails? What if he ends up with another spirit and a blown up blending machine?

“What if it fails again?” He echoes his thoughts. “If he truly were dead, my spells would’ve worked-” Issei stops mid sentence, a dangerous realisation seeping into his consciousness like a spider’s crawl. “If he were dead,” he repeats slowly, allowing the words to dangle in air for them to absorb and catch his drift, “my spells would’ve worked.”

Takahiro furrows his brows, clearly confused by the whole situation but Oikawa understands. Issei knows he understands because his jaw ticks, his shoulders stiffen, his hands clench into tight fists on either side. “What are you implying?”

“Oikawa,” says Issei, “have you ever considered he might still be alive?”

“No.” Oikawa shakes his head. “No, that’s impossible I-”

“What if he is alive?”

“But-”

“You never heard from him. You don’t know what happened to him. Iwaizumi-” 

“Hajime is dead, Mattsun.” Oikawa visibly gulps. “There is no way. There is no way he…” he trails off. 

“Hold on, Hajime?” Takahiro says. The spark of recognition in his eyes lights Issei’s skin on fire. He sees a map in his head with several unconnected dots. He simply needs an ink to connect them and draw a clear picture. Takahiro spills it for him. “You mean Iwaizumi Hajime?”

“Yes,” Oikawa replies, breathless. “How are you familiar with that name?”

“Well.” Takahiro shrugs. “We were roommates I guess.”

“You were _what_?”

Issei takes his cue to fill in the gaps for him. He realises now what went wrong. Issei’s spells work only on the dead and wandering spirits. The summoning was meant for Iwaizumi but he was never dead to begin with. The spell, however, was too strong to nullify before taking effect so it summoned a spirit living close to him. A capture by association. 

“So yeah, I was his imaginary friend or whatever,” Takahiro explains. 

For several minutes no one speaks a word. Oikawa collapses on the couch, staring into space with his hands covering half of his face. “Give me the details,” he says, “address, phone number, everything.”

“I don’t have his number, obviously, but I can manage the address.”

Later, Oikawa leaves with hopeful eyes and unmasked determination. Issei heaves a long sigh. What a long night. 

“Now that it is out of the way,” Takahiro says, drawing up close behind him and hugging his back, “where were we?”

Issei laughs and turns around, wrapping his arms around Takahiro's waist. Hanging on the cusp of night and dawn, Issei feels at ease with Takahiro so close to him, his unblinking stare boring into his eyes. 

He leans down and bumps his nose against Takahiro's, pleased with the muffled gasp and soft giggles that leave from his parted lips. Issei snatches it out of Takahiro’s mouth and captures it in his own. The kiss swells with gentle awe and days of yearning. It sparks and ignites a fire. It rolls like the roaring waves of the sea dousing the same fire. A push and pull of tides. There is a promise, a silent plea. Issei is not sure what it is but he hears it and holds onto it. Takahiro deepens the kiss -- with the same fervour, the same longing -- and Issei draws Takahiro closer. 

They part for air and their foreheads touch, leaning into each other’s space. “Right here,” Issei finally says, “we were right here.”

* * *

It’s strange to Hajime—how the house feels creepier with the lack of a spirit rather than the presence of one.

The hallways seem to be elongated, each step into his bedroom at night becoming more slow, cautious and calculated. It tickles a memory in the back of his mind about an old story, one where a woman was locked up in a house by her husband and went insane with loneliness. She had thought someone lived within the walls, only to find out that it was herself. A replication of herself. Something supernatural and strange. Hajime’s house has nothing of the sort, not anymore, but the emptiness drives him a little mad in a similar manner.

Maybe he’ll soon crawl out from the cracked wallpaper on hands and knees with a bloodied gaze. He laughs at the idea and takes a sip of his coffee. It’s been at least a month or so since the spirit suddenly disappeared, vanished without a creak or a word, and Hajime can’t deny that he misses Takahiro’s company. They had become friends at a time when Hajime had no one. Takahiro had filled the hollowed out space where his childish heart used to thump, before everything had gone to hell, and now he was gone, too.

It’s damn near impossible to not think about his family with all the quiet around him. Living in his second childhood home—the one that his parents didn’t return to one night, the one he was uprooted from so quickly, despite hardly being accustomed to the shape of the floorboard, the push of the stairs. Hajime wonders why it wasn’t them who haunted the house in the first place. He’d like to have seen them again, not that Takahiro wasn’t fun or a good friend in the time he’d occupied the house, but the chance to see his family again. That’s something that Hajime would give up anything for. 

He knows, realistically, that it isn’t possible, that not everyone takes the shape of a spirit once they die. Some things are meant to stay dead, earthed and skeletal. His parents weren’t Takahiro. They didn’t haunt the spaces left unkempt. They died and they stayed in their graves.

A knock echoes throughout the emptiness of his house. Coming so closely after the thought of ghosts and death, it’s a bit jarring. Still, he forces himself out of bed and stumbles through the night coated hallway.

“Takahiro?” he calls out when he enters the living room.

No answer.

Of course not. Takahiro was gone. He was alone.

Another knock.

Hajime has to blink the sleep away and shake his head a couple of times for it to register that somebody’s at his front door, not that there’s a friendly ghost sprawled over the couch. Half of him wishes it was a ghost on his couch and not a stranger at the door waking him up in the middle of the night. He drags his feet towards the front door nonetheless.

Shock settles into the pit of his stomach when he pulls the door back to expose a flushed face—all wide eyed and rosy cheeks. Hajime blinks. Once to clear his mind, twice to clear his vision. 

“Oh my god, you’re really here. The address wasn’t a fake.”

Hajime stands, stunned, for a handful of moments before recognizing the voice (albeit a bit deeper, now, but still moving in the same ocean-waved cadence), the curved nose, the annoyingly perfect hair—it’s him.

“Tooru?” His voice is a little unsure. The stepping stones in his mind balance on rocky waters and crossing them into certainty isn’t all that fun this late in the night. This person, even though they look like his childhood best friend, only matured, might actually be a stranger with a target on his head. Still, he starts jumping across the rocks—one by one, leap by leap. He jumps across each faint memory, each sleepover where they hardly slept at all, each lunch break they spent arguing over something stupid, each hello, and that final goodbye. Hajime crosses them all.

Instead of a vocal answer, he gets tackled into a tight embrace, one that almost knocks him onto the floor. He manages to keep his balance somehow. Tooru buries his face in Hajime’s neck, the ends of his hair tickling Hajime’s nostrils.

Years of separation wash over Hajime all within a hug, one that tries to make up for years of unwilling separation. It’s not enough, definitely not enough for the lonely days of Hajime’s childhood, the empty teenage years, the slow climb (descent, truly) into adulthood. All of it spent alone. All of it spent without Tooru.

He doesn’t know how he’s here or why or anything at all, but Hajme locks his arms around Tooru’s waist and all of the questions flee from his mind. The tenderness of Tooru’s nose against his neck, the heavy breathing (from either running, if Tooru had run, or from the blanket of surprise wrapped around Hajime’s shoulders), the fact that Tooru’s even in front of him, holding him.

So, no, it doesn’t necessarily make up for the misplaced time and almost lost friendship, but it’s enough to have Hajime grinning, tears teasing the corners of his eyes.

“It’s been a long time—”

“Shut up.”

“How the hell did you even find me?”

“Shut up and let me hug you.”

Apparently even after moving and loss and moving again and growing up, Hajime is still one to listen to whatever Tooru has to say, even if it means he’s forced to shut his mouth and just hold him.

* * *

And when later that night, as the moon melts into the sun and the heat of a new day pours into the sky, Tooru presses his lips to Hajime’s—leans across the pile of slightly outdated snacks and tipped over glasses of wine and doesn’t hold back, doesn’t hesitate. There is no wondering why or quick pull aways with flushed cheeks and embarrassed eyes. There’s none of that.

“I’ve missed you,” Tooru says, breathless.

Hajime doesn’t have to say anything at all, he knows that Tooru can tell by the way he pulls him back in, because, even with the lack of sense and slight wine skew perception, Hajime remembers the gentle smiles and early crushes that he hadn’t even known were crushes. 

He remembers Tooru. 

He remembers the sun cresting in Tooru’s hair and smiles and him.

Only him.


End file.
